Outro

Well, I’ve been meaning to write up a little “conclusion” to my semester in Senegal for some time. But, as with all my other good blogging intentions, days turned into weeks that in turn became months – good months, mind you – and as Amelia Bedelia might say, I “plum forgot."

Until now – when, tucked away in a little corner room at the Corrymeela Reconciliation Center in Northern Ireland, I felt inspired tonight to step outside of the cool, misty green pastureland of the Emerald Isle into the much hotter, drier, dusty streets of Dakar one last time. (In my head, anyway. And my ears – I wonder if I’m the only American in Ireland listening to Mbalax right now? Wouldn’t doubt it… in fact I’d doubt otherwise.)

Farewell, Car Rapide. I miss you dearly.

I miss Senegal. West Africa, to anyone who knows me, seemed a really weird choice of program before I left. Even to me, it came as a bit of a surprise to have chosen to go to Dakar. I like cleanliness and beauty, open spaces, cool weather and lots of nature; gourmet food and a good cappuccino; quirky indie films and calm folksy music; European literature, comfortable living. Dakar poses to all this the ultimate contrast: Dirty, dusty, smelly, plain; crowded and busy; hot hot HOT (and very sweaty) without AC; so little vegetation that the 2x4 foot plot of grass at the Elton gas station was the most green I saw any given day; piles of rice loaded with oil and MSG and fried fish, eaten with hands around a big bowl; a cup of coffee consisting of Nescafé with powdered milk; music I didn’t know and didn’t understand and definitely couldn’t dance to; no news other than a tabloid journal representing each political party; a culture vastly different from my own and living conditions that most middle-class Westerners would find distressing.

Knowing all of this, I could never have anticipated how truly perfect and meaningful the semester before me would be when I disembarked from the airplane on August 21, 2011; but, somehow, each of the things that from a distance or under other circumstances could seem very unattractive to me instead became charming, or adventuresome, or perhaps something I didn’t even think about after awhile. Once it became a part of my daily life, suddenly it just seemed “normal.”

Me and my stunning host mom!

Which is one of the themes emphasized the most during my time there: Relativity, and subjectivity… How an environment or background can affect how an experience is, well, experienced. - How the “norm” isn’t judged by what you think should be expected, but by what the general populous has learned to expect. - How what seems “better” or “best” is typically determined by people who have never experienced the alternative. - How what I am impressed by as an outsider might be completely overlooked by an insider; or, on the other hand, how what’s completely overlooked by me can be of intimate value to the insider. - How the things that make the list of “wants” and “needs” aren’t universal.

There is much more on that subject, too - specific examples and illustrate these thoughts, experiences that influenced them, and many other thoughts altogether - but of course I can’t dwell too long on it. (Concision and compaction, two nouns that never seem to be very popular with me.)

A classic meal of céeb in massive quantities.

But what do I miss? MSG and oil aside, I miss the tasty food: the céebu jën, mafé, yassa, and lots of French fries. Street food, too: Millet-plantain donuts, fresh mangoes, pain au chocolat, grilled corn, Nem’s and pain chinois, peanuts – fresh, roasted, or sugar-coated, bags of water, baobab juice, and bissap.

And each of those for only 5-50¢. The acquisition of a jaayfanda was far too easy.

What else… I miss: My car rapide ride to school – easily one of my favorite parts of each day. Babacar, the friendly boutique man who sold me my morning baguette. The happy seller of phone credit by the Elton gas station. SOUL ice cream from Elton. Asalaam malekum-ing and nanga def-ing and shaking hands with every person I pass. The slow lifestyle and the welcoming atmosphere of teranga. The great friends I made in my host family, my classmates, my neighbors. I miss the beautiful boubous and bright colors, and tailored clothes for less than the store-bought version. The afternoon Biskrem and strawberry milk to accompany my homework. The haunting call to prayer waking me each morning. The mirror-filled clubs and the youza. The goats in backyards and on rooftops. Bargaining with the taxi driver (waxaaling in general; I was a pro.) Walks along the Corniche. Ataaya. Music. Activism. Thinking about things I didn’t normally think about. My wonderful host family. An intrinsic sense of community. Nighttime chats on the terrace.

I could continue with much, much more.

Moussa, King of Ataaya, at our farewell tea party.

There are, of course, the things I don’t miss at all, like the rotting animal carcasses in the ditches; the shameful persistence of the Talibe; the corrupt government, the extreme poverty; the classism; the sexism; the lack of education; being yelled at – “Toubab! Toubab!” – and never getting a break from being reminded that I’m an outsider; electricity cuts and blisteringly hot temperatures; getting stranded on an island while deathly sick; garbage everywhere; being treated differently – usually better, many times worse – for being white, or American, or female, or all three; etc.

Yet, somehow even the things that upset me the most weren’t enough to ruin my time over there, which I was enjoying superbly. Now, the further away I get from my time in Senegal the less and less are the unpleasant moments and thoughts important in my selective memory. Time and distance tend to do away with the imperfections, so I’m left with a fond, pleasantly nostalgic feeling of my semester.

I’ll keep missing it, for at least awhile yet. It’s hard not to when little moments throughout the day still remind me of things back there and keep the feelings very vivid and present. However, I don’t think it’s a bad thing to miss it. Missing Senegal highlights how much I really did appreciate my time there, and even though it was very, very difficult to leave, I was happy to go home, too. I can’t have all good things at once, and lucky for me I’m a happy kid with a great family to come home to and more fun adventures to look forward to.

Perhaps I'll get to go back one day. But until then, ba baneen yoon, Sénégal. Insh allah.

The Talibé outside Ouakam's bakery.

PG-13: Some material may not be suitable for young audiences

DISCLAIMER: I meant to post this over a week ago. Somehow, it only got saved in drafts. Oh, well!

6:50 pm Following a final glance around the house, I decide that no one is home, everything is in its proper place, and all the lights are off. With this, I lock up the house and join Ashlee and Tom to hail a taxi to l'Institut Français for a Saturday night cinema outing.

8:45 pm The movie (Omar M'a Tuer) was tragic (as most French films decidedly are,) and to lighten our spirits we head to l'Institut's restaurant for an exceptionally tasty lemon coconut cake and some riveting post-film discussion.

10:00 pm Our taxi having dropped us off at our respective homes, Tom and I head to my side of the house, expecting to find dinner waiting for us. (We eat late here.) However, a loud BAAAAAing interrupts the dark solitude of my kitchen, and although our dinner is indeed set out for us on the table, a certain unexpected guest has also been waiting for us: a goat, tied up to the leg of the table, eating his own dinner of cardboard, stale bread, and a little bit of water for consistency. He is presently christened Lazarus and we become fast friends, despite the fact that he tries to eat my laundry that has been set out to dry above his head.

12:00 am I bid goodnight to my family, Tom's family, and my little pal Lazarus.

7:00 am A putrid smell fills my bedroom and forces an early arousal from sweet slumber. In my groggy state, I hear a repeated THWACKing and a commotion between my house and Tom's, but the same groggy state does not allow me to form any conclusion as to the origins of these events. Instead, I rise, and as normal gather my washcloth and soap with the intent of heading to the sink to wash my face...

7:05 am All face washing attempts are entirely foiled, for when I exit the security of my bedroom, what do I find but to my horror poor Lazarus (or what once was he,) a carcass hanging in the corner of the L that separates my bedroom from the sink, my host brother and his friend performing the aforementioned THWACKS to strip all that remains on the sorry skeleton. The two men stand in a bloody pond which I desist from traversing - I can manage a sleep-stained face if it allows me to avoid this mess! - and yet as I step backwards into my bedroom, I can't help but notice that my flip flops have left a rather sanguinary set of prints on the tiled floor and the fresh-laundered pajamas hanging not so far from the Event of the Day have obtained a splattering of crimson drops.

2:30 pm We feast upon freshly grilled mutton, and I am so well-satiated that I consider not eating for an entire year to come.* Happy Early Tabaski, everyone!

The unsuspecting sacrifice peeks coyly from behind a curtain of laundry

*Have no fear. By dinnertime that same evening, I ate a second-round of mutton with no regrets!

Peanut farmer: Just another one of the hats worn by one Ms. Esther Hathaway

The lovely Sine Saloume landscape, soon to be destroyed by an airport.

Monday morning I was up at the crack of dawn, hailing a taxi in the still-sleepy morning streets of Ouakam. As the sun slowly lit up - and heated up - the city, I foraged the hustling, bustling gare routiere with five other students. We were escorted to an adequate bus, and despite a sweltering 2-hour wait, we finally hauled out of the station onto the dusty country roads. Four hours of dozing, squishing, adjusting and snacking. Next thing I know, I've been dropped off, (abandoned? My "guide" shoved me out of the back of the bus without a word and off drove the bus,) and I stumble into the shade of a tree, offered a sack of grain as a chair by one of the old men already seated. A short wait proceeded before a little horse-drawn cart slowly enlarged on the horizon, my ride, driven by two of my "brothers" for the week, François and Charles.

Just me and some peanuts.

Twenty minutes later, having passed by and admired the clusters of eucalyptus, palm and baobab trees, vast rice paddies and sprawling deltas, I arrived at my destination: Djilor, birthplace of Senegal's first president and most beloved poet, Léopold Senghor, located in the lush Sine Saloume region. I was greeted by a swarm of giggling toddlers who led me to Mama Mbat and the rest of her clan: 9 children, 3 cousins, 1 son-in-law, 2 grandchildren and a grandpa - all in one house, with countless neighbors and relatives filling up any extra space at any given time.

Too many cute little children! It was nearly overwhelming.

My welcome was warm and friendly, and my integration into the days' activities was swift and natural. Mornings I would wake up before it was light and join the boys, loading myself once again onto the horse cart and trotting off to the fields to harvest peanuts. This was a pleasant task; we'd work until noon, François guiding the horse and plow, the rest of us collecting the peanuts behind him, breaking once for a breakfast of Senegalese couscous and curdled milk. Then lunch, céebu jën around the bowl, before a more leisurely afternoon. I might join the grandmothers under the shade of the big tree out back, shelling peanuts, or survey the cashew cracking rituals as I was snuck one or two every couple minutes by Robert. Then perhaps some Ludo (Senegal's favorite board game - picture SORRY, but with images of lutteurs decorating it,) Dutch Blitz (endless rounds - I hadn't lost my speed!) Buck (shout out to the Smiths,) and reading (shout out to Chico's fantastic paperback library at 2132.) As the sun moved, so we followed the shade, all of us outside, often a good six or seven lumped on a single mat, napping, talking, cooking or working.

Only for dinner did we all disperse a bit. Each night I'd join Mbat, Mbat the younger, and all the children for a Bollywood soap opera and TV-dinner ritual. Following this, I'd head back outside to enjoy some late-night conversation and attaya, one last round of cards, a quick bucket shower and then off to bed.

Charles at the plow; I never succeeded at efficient horse-directing.

I was ever so pleased with my week, ever so grateful for my generous host family, my busy yet relaxing séjours in the beauty of rural Senegal. I was admittedly disappointed to say goodbye so soon - five days not being nearly enough - but look forward to a return visit one day.

Partie trois (La fin.)

Due to the fairly consistent scarcity of posts as of late, I’m going to skip to the last leg of our journey and use it to conclude the series, lest my blog turn into a veritable Rick Steve’s Travels in a Very Little Part of the Casamance and the Gambia…

***

I petted a crocodile. NBD.

We last left our three heroes traversing the Atlantic coast into the pink and violet hues of the Casamancian sunset.

But fast-forward a few days, set your GPS to around 12.775,-15.687 and you’d likely find the trio squished into another 7-place taxi, cruising across the Senegalese border into the Gambia, Senegal’s English-speaking sister. Despite the shared Wolof, Diola, Serer & al. cultures, despite the fact that this teeny country is a mere sliver of a protrusion in Senegal’s center, there was an immediately noticeable difference in architecture, culture, and language. This equated a diminished presence of Islam, the notably greater popularity of Bob Marley, and a rather clumsy shift from Wolof-French to Wolof-English (although you’d think it would be a relief to be speaking English again, it felt unnatural to be in Africa speaking English, a literal step away from a country where almost no one speaks it.)

The funny colonial repartitioning of West Africa

We arrived in the little beachside town of Bakau, and after escaping the clutches of two hustling Gambians – whose persistent “Come on, brudda – it’s nice to be nice!” would repeat itself often throughout our trip – we lodged ourselves in the pitch black (electricity cut) Ramona Hotel and shortly thereafter collapsed into sleep, exhausted from a day of travel.

Amidst picnic breakfasts of pain au chocolat on the beach, fried chicken and French fries (not altogether Gambian, but on unlit Gambian nights in the tourist off-season, the only – and it turns out very worthwhile – choice within a five-mile radius) from a jovial Gambian cook, delicious mafé at our favorite Mai’s Restaurant with the company of a friendly German journalist, and evenings of sweet coffee and Biskrem cookies from the boutique on the corner, we filled our days with a plethora of activities. Guided by a group of young schoolboys during their recess, we made our way to the crocodile reserve where we wondered at the interesting translations in the culture museum and marveled at the prehistoric beasts that slowly waddled out of the swamp that was their home. As the sunset stretched over the horizon that evening, we took in the calm, tourist-less, white sand beach. Bobbing up and down in the shallow waves,

This guy actually ended WWII single-handedly.

Poulet au yassa, rice and fries: $1.50. Coke: 50¢. This is the life.

Warren and Alex recited every African country and its capital as I contemplated our nearly-completed journey and what in the world the funny man with the long shirt was looking for on the beach.

Another day, we joined Philipp the German for a day trip to a nearby nature reserve, and I was delighted by the quantity of monkeys that I saw in a single day. We wandered through the overgrown paths, admiring the countless spiders, gorgeous greenery, and delicate, brightly-colored flowers until we reached the animal orphanage, full of baboons, red monkeys and hyenas. (I have to add here that although their tongues were less floppy and overall they were slightly fatter than portrayed in the movie, the hyenas were very accurately depicted in the Lion King.)

Of course other lively details filled our days that I haven’t time to recount, because unfortunately this post is already growing much longer than I had anticipated. I’ve heard that the most interesting/effective blogs have a short commentary and lots of pictures, but I’ve always had a problem with lengthy essays in school and apparently I haven’t managed to kick that habit yet. If you made it through this one: congratulations! I’ll add some photos to at least get part of that right, and next post will be more succinct, I promise.

Now I’m heading off to spend a week in Sine Saloume, Serer country, to live with a village family for a week with whom I’ll have no language communication skills at my disposal. I’ll return next Sunday, and of course let you know what adventures were had.

Enjoy your week, and I’ll catch you then!

Best Photo of the Trip Award goes to Mr. Alex Villec

This 27-year old Gambian named John tried to convince me and Alex that he was Obama's estranged father, and since we were heading back home in December, would we mind asking the president why he hadn't returned his dad's persistent calls? It's not normal!

This little boy, his rickety cart, and his skinny horse saved us an hour-long walk in the heat of the day, following our realization that we had used up all but the equivalent of 20¢ of our funds.

Part the Second of My Casamance Adventure.

I know you’ve all been waiting in eager anticipation for my next blog post, and so, one week of Wolof tests, French exposés, broken computers and Senegalese rappers later, here it is.

I’ll begin with a summary of the couple of days proceeding my last post, but by necessity will will follow up with a photographic voyage that will carry you through the green jungles and vast rice paddies of the Casamance countryside just until the charming Diola village of Diembering – in order to avoid doing any injustice to the incredible sights and sounds of the day, which surely would be the result were I to try translating them into mere words.

Our short stint in Ziguinchor was characterized by a sweaty Baay Fall asking for sugar, an incomprehensible Mauritanian shopkeeper, ataya with soccer players who we never actually saw, and a revolutionary new dulce de leche ice cream. A single night at our petit campement saw us off bright and early to find a sept-place taxi that would transport us to Cap Skirring.

The first day at Cap was wonderfully slow, but hence not much to write home about. Therefore, let’s fast-forward to Day 2.

Inspired by a rusty advertisement on the road to the beach and Alex’s prominent cycling history, we voted unanimously to rent mountain bikes and take a tour to Djiemebering, a neighboring village. A heavy rain during the night left ravines and potholes in the rustic dirt roads, lined by lush forests and expansive rice paddies. The road slowly narrowed into a less traveled foot path, but on and on we persevered, mesmerized by the intense beauty that surrounded us in the form of giant fromagiers, droves of birds singing and flitting between the masses of hanging nests, and incomparably dense verdure. Breathtaking.

After a few detours, we finally made our way to Djiembering. Almost immediately following our arrival we were met by an exceptionally friendly Djiolan who informed us that A) Being outside of Wolof territory, "Casu May" was the new greeting of choice; B) Today happened to be an annual regional lutte festival; and C) He happened to be quite free - would we like him to show us around?

Our new friend Sembe did indeed give us the grand tour of the town, introducing us to its inhabititants, offering wives to Alex and Warren, recounting the myths and traditions of the village and providing cultural descriptions (and demonstrations) with musical stops along the way. (Turns out he's Djiembering's resident musician.)

Needless to say, we soon discovered a single morning would not be enough, and after an excitement-packed day we were reluctant to say our goodbyes. However the sun his descent, so we set out along the beach to finish our day against the backdrop of a beautiful horizon.

 

Destination Casamance

Despite the very normal heat that hovered in waves above the cracked asphalt and the typically bright equatorial sun whose scorching rays made no attempt to disguise their intrinsically cancerous properties, last Friday was not quite as average as the weather that preceded it. Last Friday marked the first day of a week of river adventures, post-war excitement and pain au chocolat in excessive quantities.

Ziguinchor's wide streets and colorful scenery were a welcome break from Dakar

Following our fourth week at school and our first full month in Senegal I already had arrived at fall break. Consequentially, I was faced with a really wonderful question: Where should I travel during my nine days of freedom?

The answer to that question lay in Senegal’s southernmost region: The Casamance. Renowned for the lush mangrove forests that stretch alongside the tranquil Casamance river, the flocks of exotic birds that migrate yearly from the four corners of the world and the endless expanses of white sand beaches that would make and postcard vendor drool, Senegal’s Casamance region is said to be the most beautiful region in the country.

Still, the beauty hasn’t come without the beast; throughout history, the Casamance has been characterized by years of civil warfare and rebellion, ranging from an impressive stand against French colonialism in the 1940s (with a particularly bold [albeit failed] revolt led by a female that you can read about here if you’re looking for some rainy day lit) to the past decade’s sometimes violent uprisings against the current government and the notable chaos that ensued. In 2004 the Casamance finally reached an agreement with the government and since then has been welcoming increased stability and peace, and despite the occasional sighting of a 10 year old carrying a machete in the street, the Casamance remains, hands down, the most charming and welcoming part of Senegal. *

Warren & Alex: Travel companions par excellence

All of that to say that the Casamance was without doubt the most logical destination for my fall break. Lucky for me, two other dauntless friends thought so as well – Warren, an environmental/international studies major at Northeastern, and Alex, an economics major from Georgetown. Therefore, Lonely Planet guide in one hand, passport in the other, backpack strapped securely to my back and a companion on either side, I embarked on my journey to the Fertile Region.

First stop: Ziguinchor. The Casamance’s regional capital is a fair distance from Dakar and numerous warnings about crummy roads (that barely even deserved to be call such) and very sketchy taxis that turn 6 hours into a two-day affair, coupled with the contrastingly enjoyable prospect of a maritime adventure, led us to choose the Dakar ferry as our means of transport. And an excellent choice it was – the 8pm departure furnished a beautiful panorama of Senegal’s capital city for the occasion, the glittering skyline quietly meshing into the star-lit night sky until finally Dakar disappeared altogether as the ferry pulled farther and farther away and we were left in the hushed darkness of the Atlantic Ocean. An evening on deck was filled with conversation, coffee and cookies, and after the enchantment of the nighttime sea had given way to tiredness, I climbed into my cozy cabin bunk and let the waves rock me to sleep…

Dakar's ferry port by night

The next morning saw a fairly early start. After a breakfast of chocolate, baguettes and café au lait (the recurring meal of the trip) with a very friendly French couple, it wasn’t long before our 15-hour ride had finally reached its destination. Amidst the belligerent crowd of hoteliers and taxi drivers that crowded the docks, we slowly pushed our way to the streets of Ziguinchor. As soon as we escaped, an immediate sense of calmness characterized this new city whose wide, sparsely-trodden roads, low buildings and impressive foliage (Dakar had me forgetting that the color green ever existed) was a dramatic contrast to the bustling streets of Dakar, so crowded with people and animals and vehicles coming and going in every direction without regard to anyone else. Here, people moved slower, smiled more, and made a really delicious yassa au poulet.

The welcoming shores of Ziguinchor!

But can you wait here a minute? Or a few, if you don’t mind; I’m going to leave you hanging for a day or two before I continue my vacation tales, lest I end up writing an entire novel in one go. So I’m stopping here, but I’ll add more soon. Until next time! Ba beneen yoon!

*Granted, I’m pretty certain those machetes were actually going to be used in the rice fields that pervaded the Casamansian countryside… but it sounds awfully more dramatic if I leave out the context.

My newest pals

Wow, it's been awhile since I've posted... this week has been busy, busy, busy. Last weekend we went to a beach town called Toubab Dialaw (photos later), followed by a whirlwind of classes and homework and ice cream. In fact, I don't have much time now - I'm leaving in a few hours for a week-long trip along the Senegal river (I promise details upon my return!) - but since I'll be a week without a computer, I thought I'd at least post a few photos of the adorable little kitties that have taken over the doll house on the VDN. 

Every day, following my rugged ride on the car rapide and a short walk through some twisty streets, I encounter the VDN, the big highway I have to cross every day to get to school. There is a little island between each side of the highway where the talibé (young beggar boys from the Koranic schools) often hang out and animals tend to rot - as you can imagine, not the most beautiful, nor the most aromatic of places. However, last Monday as we were precariously tiptoeing across the island so as to avoid stepping in any of the suspicious, fly infested piles of UIOs, we came across a little kitty in the dollhouse that the talibé keep. And the next day, he was still there... and the next, and the next, until finally yesterday he even had a little kitty friend with him. 

Needless to say, I am overwhelmed by adorableness each and every day.

 This was the original kitty in his little kitty mansion. Just hangin'.

To give you a sense of where the house is at. There's a street like that on each side, although normally the cars are more noticeable. Probably they're just going so fast you can't see them. (Oh! And that's my school in back - that pinkish building.)

This picture is mostly for my mother (Hi, Mom!) who requested I post a photo of myself, and for the kitty's kitty friend, lest he feel left out for not making the first photo. Unfortunately, this was the only photograph I had with myself in it - I'll have to do some Facebook snatching when I get back.

Have a fabulous week, everyone - catcha on the flip side! =)

Travel Guide: Ile de Gorée

Take a little break from la vie quotidienne and make a stop at the historic Ile de Gorée.

Located a little more than a mile off the coast of Dakar, l'Ile de Gorée made its grim name as the first European settlement in Africa, paving the way for what would become a massive Atlantic slave trade. Occupied at various times by the Dutch, the Portuguese and the French, the island is also known as La Maison des Esclaves (the House of Slaves) and is a sobering reminder of the gross barbarity perpetrated throughout so much of the world.

However, rather than dwell constantly in what history can not undo, Senegal has turned the ancient horror into a colorful, bustling island town. Remnants of colonial structures  juxtapose their brightly washed walls next to more traditional thatched-roof houses as artists sell their handmade goods and children play soccer on the beach.

Museums scatter l'Ile de Gorée, and despite their rather decrepit, disorganized state, (often in the Women's Museum, you would not be informed on what you were looking at until two exhibits later, and the preservation techniques were quite wanting,) each museum - the Woman's Museum, the Slave Museum, and a general anthropological exhibit of the evolution and migration of the Senegalese - offered an intriguing range of the histories of Senegal's peoples.

A visit to one of Senegal's oldest mosques was in call, a worthy stop despite its rather unassuming state. If the sun's not too scalding and your burn's not too excrutiating, take a hike up the small hill at the end of the island for some spectacular views of Dakar and some peaceful breathing away from the hyper-heckling vendors. (They are the only downside to this otherwise serene getaway - imagine a woman stalking you for half the length of the island before tugging at your clothing to get you to come buy from her, and dramatically proclaiming that if you don't, she'll be forced to throw herself in the water, and her children will fall in to poverty with only a fourteen year-old sister to look after them. True story.)

Once you've finished your hillside climb, come back down and splurge 50¢ - you deserve it! - on a succulent mango dripping in fresh lime juice. Take it over to the water side and savor the goût while the cool waves wash gently over your hot, tired feet.

A brief photographic tour of Ouakam, for your enjoyment.

I finally took advantage of my school's wireless internet and uploaded a few photos. Of course, this is merely a glimpse of the wonders that await me each and every day, but it will give you a very vague idea of where I am.

Horse-drawn carts are not at all passé here in Ouakam. If only I could get one to take me to school...

The beach at Mamelles, about a ten minute walk from my house.

Obama makes his appearance on the old airport wall behind my house.

Garbage litters the streets of every neighborhood in Dakar. However, it's slightly redeemed by the happy goat family that has clearly found a nice home in this particular heap.